


that kind of lux just ain't for us

by jonphaedrus



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Canon Disabled Character, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Trans Character, Trans Regis, past pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 15:16:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9447149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonphaedrus/pseuds/jonphaedrus
Summary: Regis has never been able to come without a knot while in Heat. Never.(Clarus might take a little more pleasure in that than he should.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> kmeme prompt for omega!regis going into heat during a meeting
> 
> the devil has my hands and my hands are full of domestic trans regclar

The shifting actually gives Regis away before the smell does, but it’s a faint enough scent that nobody but Clarus would notice. Part of that is his proximity, a mere foot away from the King, and part of it is that Regis is no bare, young omega, yet un-bonded, yet un-bred. He doesn’t smell like it, either—he smells of low musk, of Clarus, of the surefire pulse of their children and sleep-warm skin. If it was Noctis they would all be dealing with a significantly more pressing issue, pheromones for miles, but with Regis it’s far less the fact that he smells of Heat and far _more_ the fact that his jaw is tense and he looks oddly miserable.

Clarus very much wants to take him to bed.

As an argument continues around the table, he holds his hand up for silence. “This is going nowhere,” he pronounces at last, with a sigh. “We’ve been in circles for nearly an hour, and I for one have better things to do with my time, as I am sure all of you do as well.” The King’s order is law, and the argument sizzles out as quickly as it begun. “Gaius, Livia, next week I expect you to return with enough data that we may, as a whole, make a unanimous decision on the matter. Cato, I will deal with those papers on my desk in the morning. Is there anything else?” The last few clerical errors are sorted, and then Regis rises, the rest of the Council following, one hand balances him atop the table, one atop his cane.

“The Council is adjourned.”

 

 

They walk side by side back to the Royal chambers, Clarus a step behind the younger man’s shoulders, hands folded behind his back. Regis is not as young as he once was, and he moves slower because of it, his early forties bringing arthritis and ill sleep with it. When they arrive at last within the heavy oaken doors that demarcate their suite of rooms, away from tutors and Crownsguard and servants, Regis sags slightly, and Clarus gets a hand under his elbow, keeps him upright. “Did it just start?” He asks; they are far and away old enough that they’re not near as frantic as they were in the haze and rage of youth. He can have this, just enjoying the blur of arousal as his body reacts to Regis, to wanting him. “It was fast.”

“Stress, most-like,” the King murmurs, letting Clarus take his cane and lead him to their bedroom, close and lock the door behind them. No need for inopportune interruptions; if there’s a real emergency the children and the Marshal have the key. Regis opens up to curl into Clarus like a heat source, fingers tucked around the base of his neck. He’s already hot, feverish under his clothes, and sweat is beading at his hairline.

This close, Clarus can do more than smell him: he can practically taste the musk of Regis’ heat-slick on the back of his tongue, low in his throat, and his cock throbs something awful and needy as he helps Regis strip of his clothes, far more careless with them than he should be, but Regis has somehow gotten his hands under Clarus’ shirts to his skin and his slim fingers are digging like firebrands into the top of Clarus’s stomach, over the decades worth of hard muscle there, and by the time they practically trip over one another into bed Regis is in only his boxers and Clarus feels like he’s going to boil in his clothes. It smells of sex already, musky and heady, and his cock is uncomfortably hard in his trousers, his shoes surprisingly difficult to fuss with, and Clarus almost topples flat on his face onto the bedspread twice watching as Regis bites his lower lip until it’s swollen and red, forcing himself to concentrate as he texts their kids to let them know all is well.

“Meetings to reschedule,” he’s murmuring, pulling the circlet from his hair, as Clarus finally manages to wrestle both his boots off and starts to fumble with his council cloak, “I shall have to postpone that visit to the Wall, and we’ll need to find another week to do the business sector,” Clarus’ cloak hits the floor, and he almost tears the buttons off of his shirt as Regis slides his hands down his chest, over the brown nubs of his nipples and the scars at the base of his pecs, across the worryingly-emaciated bow of his stomach, “I hope Iris can work out doing her piano recital next week,” how the man is still so calm Clarus _doesn’t know_ because he has to try four times to undo the button of his fly and gets his knees caught in the fabric when Regis slides his fingertips under the elastic of his boxers, still flipping through his calendar, nonchalant, and pulls them down.

He’s slick all down the insides of both his thighs, the cotton peeling away from his skin with a wet sticking noise, and his clit is hard and swollen, standing out red and damp amidst his pubic hair. Clarus whines aloud, sobs, and finally manages to get the rest of his clothes off, climbs on the bed, drags his husband’s phone from his hand and tosses it on the bedside table without looking, and is about to kiss him when Regis seemingly without thought dips three fingers into his cunt and moans hot and needy, clenching around them, and that—

His knot throbs, and Clarus kisses him.

“That bad already,” Regis murmurs into his mouth, as always more resistant to the pressure and functional supernova of his Heats than Clarus, and Clarus grabs his upper arm, leans over him, parts the younger man’s thighs, and bats his fingers out of the way. They’re too thin, too gentle, and not enough. He can’t just _touch himself_ like that when Clarus is _right here_ and _wanting_ and when he twists three fingers of his own up into Regis, he sighs in pleasure, his head rolls back on his neck, and Clarus scrapes his teeth over the curve of his husband’s throat and across the twenty-five-years worth of bond scars that mar his pale skin there, moans into his skin, and curls his fingers inside the other man just to hear Regis whisper his name like a benediction.

Clarus can remember, painfully vividly, the first time they’d Bonded—Regis had been seventeen, Clarus twenty-two, and they’d talked about it and agreed on it all beforehand. After being betrothed since near-birth, it wasn’t a change of pace. Oh, they’d been supposed to wait for the wedding, but they were both stupid and young and hormonal and they’d snuck out of the Wall down to Hammerhead and then off into the Leide countryside, and their first Heat had together been spent wild and desperate and violent in a tent, just the two of them (they’d had to throw their sleeping bags out, afterward, they’d made such a mess).

Their first Bond had come at the end of the five days (they’d all been young, once) and Regis had pinned Clarus down with a frightening amount of strength belied by his nature and his narrow frame and held him there as he’d ridden Clarus’ cock to orgasm, yelling at the top of his lungs when they knotted up and Clarus got his hands on his tits, pulled roughly on his nipples, and had come so hard he’d nearly passed out at the broken, anguished wail Regis had made when he’d bitten down at the bottom of his throat until he’d tasted blood, his knot held tight in bruising heat, pumping Regis full until his stomach was swollen and he couldn’t speak, shaking all over and in _bliss_.

(One time, when Clarus hadn’t Bond-bitten him, after Gladio’s birth, when their Heat had been a necessity and _incandescently_ violent, Regis had slammed his head into the desk they’d been fucking on until he saw stars, and bitten _him_. He still had that scar, at the top of his throat, just under the edge of his jaw.)

They have all the time in the world now, though that thought doesn’t really slow them as much as it makes Clarus want to tie them together and never let Regis go. He bites, gently, at the other man’s neck, at the curve of his shoulder, and spreads his thighs to slide down his body, Regis sighing unhappily as he tries to grab at Clarus’ hair. This is their first Heat since he’s started to shave it. “I miss it already,” Regis muses, digging his nails into Clarus’ scalp instead, dragging him close. He doesn’t have to ask because Clarus already wants, and he’s pushing Regis’ thighs over his shoulders to hook around the back of his head and licking a hot stripe over his clit and the sticky heat-slick of him, four fingers back inside him like they’d never left. Regis is moaning almost immediately, never one to hide his pleasure, and he encourages Clarus on with his heels dug into his husband’s shoulders, with the fingers on the back of his neck, and Clarus wants to take him apart piece by piece even as his knot fucking _throbs_ , half-hard and wanting already, and he just wants to see how open he can get Regis, to see his come leaking out over the King’s thighs in something a little like ownership.

“ _Clarus_ ,” Regis whines, when he’s eaten the other man out to the point his thighs are shaking and there’s almost more slick on Clarus’ face than there is on Regis’ cunt, clenching down over his fingers with his clit so hot that Clarus can feel his husband’s pulse through the skin, “You’re going to make this _needlessly_ hard if you do that.” Clarus grins.

Regis has never been able to come without a knot while in Heat. Never.

(Clarus might take a little more pleasure in that than he should.)

Neither of them is fully in the thrall yet, and Clarus wants to enjoy this as long as he can. Regis is getting near to menopause, and soon enough they’ll be _done_ with Heats, and he’s going to miss the way that Regis gets when he’s deep in wherever his omega hormones takes him, sharp-edged and beautiful and deadly as shattered glass and willing to _use_ Clarus like he wants to be used, to take him apart into the baser portions of himself and fuck him until he breaks down, tear him to shreds with his teeth. He wants to get Regis there, wants to ratchet him up until he loses control and implodes.

It ends up taking another half an hour to get Regis there, Clarus practically begging him to break, before Regis’ _prodigiously_ short temper snaps and he kicks Clarus in the hip, drags blunt nails down his back to leave angry welts, and bares his teeth, green eyes fever-bright and sweat flushing his skin. “Clarus,” he growls, an order, and Heat lends his words heavier magic and a touch of the omega empathy he hardly needs to make Clarus get on his knees, “ _Do not test me_.”

Clarus loves him, gods, he loves him, he loves Regis something awful, and he grabs for his hips, for his shoulders, spreads his thighs. “Please let me,” he whispers, and Regis snarls something hardly polite, bites Clarus’ lower lip hard enough that it bleeds, and drags him over with his heels. He’s loose and soaking from the time Clarus has spent eating him out, with fingers in him (and from two children as well, widening Regis’ hips and changing his gait and just making Clarus love him more with all his stretch marks) and his cockhead goes in without pause, goes in and in and _in_ and Regis is hot like hellfire and Clarus presses their foreheads together, his body strangely not-his with the disassociation of Heat, with how much he _wants_.

Regis is splayed on the sheets. His hair is growing long, dark and flecked with more grey now than brown, down past his ears, and his sweat has made it loose, splayed sticky and tangled around his cheeks and face, his narrow chest rising and falling as he pants. He watches Clarus with half-lidded eyes, and every time Clarus starts to slow, to enjoy the rub of the head of his cock up against his husband’s cervix, Regis keeps clenching down and baring his teeth when Clarus’ knot pushes just into him. He wants something awful to pump Regis full, breed him properly, to let Regis shove him down in the sheets and take his pleasure until he’s full of days worth of Clarus’ come and it’s so sticky and tacky inside him that it hardly will come out. If they were years younger, maybe, maybe they could have more children, but as it is—

“Clarus,” Regis sighs, needy, tightening up around him, “Clarus, _now_ , Clarus, love—“ and Clarus does as he’s asked, always does as he’s asked, and presses one palm over the base of Regis’ stomach and digs his thumb into the King’s clit to make him yelp, his hips knocking the younger man’s thighs to splay open as he pushes home, home, knot widening Regis as wide and wider than Clarus’ knuckles, the King crying in ecstasy at the joy of it, his handsome face open and raw and _sated_ at the feeling of Clarus bottoming out inside of him, knot engorged and locking up so that he can’t move, and Regis comes untouched around him, moaning-gasping-pleading _yes_ and _just like that_ and _Clarus_ as he laughs through it, clenching down, milking Clarus’ cock like he wants it too, he wants to be full as much as Clarus wants to fill him.

They end up sprawled in easy lassitude, Clarus tucked around Regis like he can protect the man from the rest of the world, the both of them shuddering in time whenever another wave hits Clarus, Regis grunting as he gets more come inside him. They’re a sticky mess, but a _happy_ sticky mess, and Clarus keeps smiling into the side of Regis’ neck, rubbing his hands over his slightly misaligned hips, counting the dips between his ribs.

“Something on your mind?” The King asks at last, shoving on his shoulder to roll over, propping his elbows on Clarus’ chest, looking down at him with stupid affection, Clarus’ cock still hard inside him, which is just where he wants to be. Clarus just smiles back at him, grossly besotted.

“I love you.”

Regis sighs, shakes his head, smiles. “No shit,” he says, and Clarus laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr and twitter @jonphaedrus


End file.
